


Coming Out

by Blue_Night



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person, Secret Relationship, Self-Acceptance, doubts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Night/pseuds/Blue_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about the reality gay footballers live in nowadays and about courage and making the right decision to finally find their own peace of mind. Hopefully, all the nameless gay footballers I chose one of my favorite players to give them a face will be able to make this decision without fear one day.</p><p>The nameless male footballer in this fic called 'he' could be: Erik Durm, Mario Götze, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang, Nuri Sahin, Robert Lewandowski or whomever you like him to be with. Just choose your favorite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoForGoals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoForGoals/gifts).



> You know the reason for this fic, sweetie, and also the reason why I gift this to you. :-*
> 
> I am in a pretty edgy mood again today for some reasons and some health issues, and this popped up in my mind and didn't leave me alone again. I guess that this is some of the strangest fics I've ever written and I have no clue whether it makes sense and if you will like it, so please, leave feedback again and tell me what you think of it. 
> 
> Most of the stories posted in this fandom - I don't know the number, but I would guess 85% to 90% pair male footballers with other males. We all know that actors, musicians and even politicians can come out and live openly gay without problems, but footballers still have to fear the hate of the fans and a lot of them marry and live a faked life because of that fear. Hopefully, one active player will decide to come out one day and get all the respect and support he would deserve for this very important step.  
> I do hope that us writers and readers enjoying all of these fictional stories about them will be there to support them if this will ever happen, because love is love and can never be wrong, no matter whom we love.
> 
> A million thanks to all of you who will take the time and leave feedback, kudos and/or comments to tell me that they share my opinion that footballers shouldn't have to live in the closet because of some stupid prejudices against gay sportsmen. Each comment and each kudo under this story will be a visible sign that you think the same and that our heroes should be judged for what they do on the pitch and not for what they do in bed with the one they love.

You are injured.

Again.

It seems to be like a curse. You stopped counting the times you became injured during the last two years, each single damn time knocking you off your feet not only in the real sense of the world but also in the literally sense of it.

You lie curled up into a small ball on your large couch in the huge living room of your big house, alone and hurting, and you know that one reason for you being injured and hurting all the time is that you are not only alone in your big house, but also lonely.

Your house is so empty, no wife rummaging in the kitchen to brew a tea for you while you lie here, the cushion you're hugging slowly soaking wet with your silent tears. No kids are running up and down the stairs, shouting and fighting like kids normally do and your house is not only too empty, but also too quiet to feel like a real home and not only like a for one person too big house.

You know that it is ridiculous to live in such a big house when no one's there to share it with you, and you are not really sure why you bought it in the first place. To throw some parties here for your teammates and friends? The ones who have a family and will tell you that they are very, very sorry but simply can't accept your invitation because of the kids being sick, because the parents-in-laws just have come for a visit or because their wives are pregnant again and not allowed to drink alcohol?

You can't remember any other reason why you bought it except for simply having enough money to buy such a big house; and you really wished you wouldn't have bought it because it feels even more empty because of its huge size.

You turn the cushion around when the wetness starts to bother you, staring blindly at the opposite wall, and you flinch violently when the doorbell suddenly rings. You're expecting no one and you're not in the mood to deal with anybody, but the bell rings again, and you know that the light you were too exhausted to turn off gives your presence away. And so you struggle to your feet and limp to your door to let the person standing before your front door and ringing your bell in – whoever it might be who found their way to your big, empty house.

 

*~*~*~*

 

You haven't expected it to be him, but, your heart starts to beat faster and a small cautious smile spreads out on your face when you see that it's him standing before your door.

“Hi!” you say, “come in,” pulling him into your large hall to close the door behind him and hide his presence in your house from prying neighbors.

“Hi,” he says and he looks a little bit reluctantly, just as if he regretted it that he came to visit you. “I just wanted to see how you are doing.”

 _'Bad, I'm doing bad!'_ you want to say. _'I am injured again and I am so fucking lonely in my big and empty house, lying on my couch and waiting for something that will never happen!'_ But, you don't say these words out loud, fearing that the truth will scare him away again.

Instead you say: “I'm fine, thanks,” adding only in your mind the words _'now that you are here with me.'_

He smiles at you and you can see the relief in his eyes that you didn't tell the truth about how you really feel but chose to use a white lie instead for his peace of mind's sake.

He pulls you close, shooting a furtive glance at the window beside the door to see if anyone is watching you before he tilts his head to the side to kiss you.

He is the reason why there is no wife rummaging in your kitchen, brewing tea for you. He is the reason why there are no kids running up and down the stairs.

Okay, maybe not only he. There was another 'he' before him and maybe, there will be another 'he' after him some day.

The reason for the lack of a wife and kids in your big and empty house is that your heart starts to race with longing when you feel the body heat of another man close to you making you sweat. That you crave to feel another man's stubble scratching over your own stubbly cheek when he's kissing you. You love to run your fingers through the short hair at the back of his head while you're kissing him, and you like the thinner lips of another man better than the lips women normally call their own.

You dwell in the hoarse moans you can pull from the man lying in your arms while you're making love, and you are addicted to the intoxicating scent of another aroused male, this special mixture of herbal aftershave, fresh sweat, pheromones and leather.

His kiss becomes more heated when he senses your distraction, and your thoughts about the reason for the emptiness in your house and your life vanish when his tongue demands entrance into your mouth, snaking its way between your closed lips. You hear yourself moan and his answering gasp is as husky and male as you need it to be when your tongues start to battle for dominance. This kiss isn't as playfully as it would be with a woman, she granting you the victory, gladly, oh no. Both of you want to win the upper hand and your kiss is neither sweet, nor refined, only rough and full of passion while you stumble your way upstairs into your huge bedroom with the king-size bed there waiting for you.

This is what you want from him and what he wants from you, and you start to rip your clothes from your bodies on your way up, too impatient to go slow. The stolen moments you have with him are too precious to be wasted and when you reach the door leading to your bedroom, both of you are naked and crazy with need.

He pulls you with him and you fall down on your bed, your last coherent thought how good it feels as his strong and heavy male body crushes you with its weight.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He's riding your cock and you can't take your eyes off him.

He is so beautiful in his arousal, skin flushed red, head thrown back, and the noises he makes while he bounces up and down on your painfully hard member are the sweetest music you have ever listened to.

His well-trained body is covered with a thin layer of sweat and your hands can't stop roaming over his abs and his chiseled chest, your calloused fingertips teasing his hard nipples crowning the perfectly male landscape exposed to your greedy eyes. His strong thighs straddling you press roughly into your flanks as he speeds up, chasing his orgasm, but you love it, you need to feel him this way.

A loud moan flees your lips and your hands travel down to his hips to support him, but he takes your right hand into a tight grip and forces it around his leaking dick, wet with the pre-come his ride has milked from him.

“Jerk me off!” he orders you, breathlessly and harshly, and you obey gladly because you crave to feel the weight of his hard manhood in your fingers. He guides your hand, showing you how fast and hard he needs it, and your own cock driving in and out of him as he bobs up and down on it throbs with the need to come. You are so damn close, but you don't want it to end too soon, knowing that he will leave you after you're finished.

But, the feeling of his pulsing cock in your hand, slick with his pleasure, and the tight heat enclosing your manhood is too intensive to last long, and all you can do is biting down hard on your lip to at least hold back until he comes first, because there is no way that you will come before him and leave him unsatisfied. You stroke him faster and smile when he rewards you with a strangled cry and a heavy shudder for your attempt to drive him crazy.

You know how to pleasure another man, how to touch him and stroke him, because you are a man yourself and you know what will pleasure him the most, quite well. It is in your blood and you use all of your skills to push him towards the edge, pulling more shudders and moans from him while you watch him, struck by his male beauty. You are glad that he doesn't watch you, keeping his eyes closed to focus on his arousal, because you fear that he will see the emotions in your eyes – emotions that would tell him that for you, it is more than just sex, much more. You don't want him to see that because you fear what you would see in his face in return. You know that for him, it is most likely only sex, but you're not ready to see this truth in his eyes, not yet, and so you concentrate on driving him crazy instead, dwelling in his erratic breathing and the shivers wrecking him with every hit of your cock against his prostate.

His orgasm overtakes him out of the blue and the hot wetness spilling all over your fingers, adorning your flat abdomen and your chest with an abstract painting of creamy-white stripes draws your own climax from you, his clenching walls milking your exploding cock, and you shoot your load into the rubber with a hoarse and almost desperate cry.

When it is over, he drops down on you, limb and drained from everything, and you wrap your arms around him and hold him close, humming softly into his ear like you know he loves it after his height.

This is what you love most when you two are together, the tender moments afterwards, when he allows you to hold him and rock him and when his kisses are gentle and almost sweet instead of a heated duel.

Soon enough, he will get up and leave you again, making your house a place once more that is far too big and far too empty to ever be a real home.

 

*~*~*~*

 

You sit there on the podium, the bright light of the many lamps stinging in your eyes and you lick your dry lips, nervously, but you feel surprisingly calm for what you're about to do.

You mused for a rather long time about this, spending restless nights in your lonely bed, thinking and fearing and worrying and doubting, but in the end, you realized that this is the only way for you to overcome the emptiness that fills not only your big house, but also your body, your mind and your heart.

You simply have to do this. You know that it probably means that you will lose him, but, if you don't do it, you will lose yourself and this would be worse than losing him.

You take a deep breath and look straight into the cameras directed at you, but you don't see the blinking eyes of the cameras, but his face, because you know that he is sitting somewhere before the screen, watching you looking into the cameras – looking at him – as you know open your mouth and say, your voice husky, but your words firm and unwavering:

“I am Marco Reus. I am a football player and I am gay.”


End file.
